Stolen Child
by Elysia of Corellia
Summary: Short story. The faeries call to the green eyed child to come, come away with them... 'For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'
1. James and Lily

These chapters will be short, as this is by definition a short story. I should be finishing it relatively quickly, within the next two weeks, and will post chapters at a regular schedule.** -grins- **I'd love reviews, should you care to leave them.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither _Stolen Child_ by Yeats nor _Harry Potter_ by Rowling. No infringement is intended by this fic.

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Stolen Child

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_Where dips the rocky highland_

_of Sleuth Wood in the lake,_

_there is a leafy island_

_where flapping herons wake_

_the drowsy water rats;_

_there we've hid our faery vats_

_full of berries_

_and of reddest stolen cherries._

It was a picturesque setting, had the child known such terms. He didn't, of course, as he was very young; but he did know that he was happy. It was sun-shiny. His tummy was full from nursing. His nappy wasn't wet. His parents were cooing at him.

Mama and Dada were sitting on the blankets sharing some grown-up food. But he was already full. Now he wanted to look around. He rolled over onto the grass, pushed himself up on stubby hands and knees. His mouth made a small round circle of wonder. There was so much color!

The grass was very soft. There weren't even any sticks in it to hurt his hands. He pushed off courageously.

Unfortunately, the child was on a gently sloping hill. His limbs gave out and he rolled down to the grass-covered base. He whimpered. That hadn't been very fun. Now his tummy hurt, a little. He gave an experimental sniffle. But Mama and Dada were still at the top, and they didn't hear. He stopped and looked back up the hill. It was big!

Oh well. He turned around and looked in the other direction. There was a very big blue thing. Water? It didn't look like the colorless stuff his mama washed him with. But then a fish jumped. The splash did look like the ones he made with his hands. He crawled closer to the big water and put his hand in. It was cold! He crawled a few feet backwards and sat.

There was brown and green in the middle of the big water. It looked like trees. Why were they in the water? He wanted to see, but he didn't want to touch the water. Instead he went around it, humming softly. The grass tickled his face, but he got closer to the brown thing. There were animals laying on it, he saw now. A big birdie flew over him to the brown, and one of the animals woke up and snorted at it. Then it went back to sleep. He kept going.

And then he stopped and sat up. He was very close to the brown now, and it was dirt and trees and grass and… He squinted. What were those?

Big tubs full of red stuff sat underneath the trees. They smelled good, like the little cookies Mama sometimes gave him. His mouth watered.

There were people around the tubs! Big people, but not so big. They were littler than Mama and lots littler than Dada. They were almost as much littler as him, but they were flying like the birdie did. They wore pretty clothes, too, blue and green and white and red like the stuff in the tubs. They were singing. He stared.

_Come away, O human child!_

_To the waters and the wild_

_with a faery, hand in hand,_

_from a world more full of weeping than you can understand._

He understood the words. They were very beautiful. And the smells smelled so yummy. And he wanted to see them closer. Somehow he could tell that they were nice people, not bad ones. He put one chubby hand in the water and pulled it back out. How would he cross?

But they understood. They flew to him and surrounded him. He could go across the water now, he knew, if he wanted to. He put his hand back. It wasn't cold, anymore. It was nice and a little bit cool, like Mama's hands when it was hot outside. He rolled back onto his belly and pushed himself up. Now he put both his hands in the water and started crawling.

"Harry? Harry!"

Why was his Mama calling him?

"Harry!"

Now his Dada was calling too. Why? Didn't they know where he was? Mama and Dada always knew where he was. That was how things were.

"_Harry!_"

They didn't sound like they did… They sounded not-right. He wrinkled his face. That wasn't how they were supposed to sound. Were they okay? He stopped, even though he'd only gone a little little ways. Even his feet were still touching the grass. The pretty people swirled around him. They wanted him to come.

Mama and Dada appeared at the top of the hill. Mama's pretty red hair was flying everywhere, and Dada's glasses weren't straight. They had funny faces on. But not happy faces, like when they cooed to him. Something was very not-right. He turned around to the grass. He could go at a not-now. This now he had to find out why Mama and Dada were not-right and what the funny faces meant.

The pretty people were sad. They went back to their tubs. He could still hear them singing to him. _We'll come back,_ they told him. _We'll miss you. We hope you'll come, next time._ They waved bye-bye to him. He waved back.

Then Mama and Dada saw him, and they ran down very fast. Mama picked him up. She was crying. Dada hugged him and Mama. There was water on his face, too. He didn't know why. He was fine. They stood still for a little now, and then started back up the hill.

He waved bye-bye to the pretty people at the top.

He hoped he'd see them again.

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Reviews would be nice... Oh, come on, folks, how else am I ever supposed to improve if you won't drop me a line or two? Please? -hopeful expression - Besides, then I'll update faster. Shall we say, a minimum of either five reviews or ten days before the next chapter goes up? I don't think that's too audacious, do you? 


	2. Rubeus Hagrid

As promised, I post this upon the reception of the fifth review.If you really want a disclaimer, refer to the first chapter. Enjoy!_  
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Where the wave of moonlight glosses_

_the dim grey sands with light,_

_far off by furthest Rosses'_

_we foot it all the night,_

_weaving olden dances,_

_mingling hands and mingling glances,_

_till the moon has taken flight._

_To and fro we leap_

_and chase the frothy bubbles,_

_while the world is full of troubles_

_and is anxious in its sleep._

He'd heard the crashing of those waves before. He didn't know where; it was like the dream-memory of the flying motorcycle. But Harry _knew_ that he had heard them before tonight. The knowing was just another odd thing at the end of another odd day.

The whole week had been strange. Ever since that first letter written with emerald ink, life had turned topsy-turvy and upside-down. Uncle Vernon, the boy feared, would soon crack. Aunt Petunia wasn't much better off. Both of them knew what the letters meant as surely as he knew he'd heard these waves. As surely as he knew that he'd heard this - song?

Was song the right name for that sound? There was some sort of music in the waves and the wind and the thunder. It reminded him of a picture he'd seen above a poem in one of Dudley's neglected books. _Stolen Child_, it had been called. The picture had been of waves on a beach at night, and faeries dancing there. Some of them had been chasing bubbles, and the scene had looked almost... familiar. The poem had been familiar, too. He figured it was just one of those weird cases of deja vu. But tonight, with the Dursleys all asleep, and the weird music outside, he wondered.

His thoughts wandered in a different direction. Tomorrow was his birthday. At the stroke of midnight, he would be eleven years old - not that anyone cared to remember. Who would remember a skinny messy-haired boy with glasses and ugly clothes? "Happy Birthday to me," he whispered under his breath. Maybe tomorrow he'd at least get off of this island with its strange deja vu and learn about those letters. "Happy Birthday to me."

The music outside got louder. Harry was almost certain that he could hear voices now. He should have been afraid, he thought - who knew who else would be on this island? But he wasn't. The voices were even more familiar than the music was. The song that they were singing hit a chord somewhere in him. He had heard it before. Where?

Wherever it had been, he couldn't just stay here on the ground listening. His curiosity wouldn't let him. He grabbed his glasses and shoved them on his head. Pushing himself up, he checked the couch - needlessly; he could hear the snores perfectly well - to make sure Dudley was asleep. Then he stood, and tiptoed over to the filthy window.

He blinked, took off his glasses, and rubbed them on his shirt. When he slid them back over his eyes, he gaped. He hadn't been imagining things after all. There, whirling in circles above the moon-washed sand, were faeries. They were about his size, and draped with shimmering clothes that looked like they'd been made out of diamonds. And they were beautiful, more so than anything he'd ever seen.

They were singing.

_Come away, O human child!_

_To the waters and the wild_

_with a faery, hand in hand,_

_for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

Harry recognized the words, but couldn't remember when he'd listened to them. Even more than the waves and wind had done earlier, they struck a chord in him. And, he realized with a shock, they were singing to him. The faeries wanted him to come with them.

For a second, he was surprised. Then suspicion hit. Why would they want him? Nobody wanted him. He was a useless four-eyed freak that couldn't even tame his hair. He had a scar on his forehead, and wherever he went, trouble and strange things followed.

Even if it weren't for that... Faeries didn't exist. They couldn't. Magic didn't exist, and faeries were, by definition, magic. He was dreaming. Resolutely he turned, went back to his spot on the floor, and laid back down. But he did not sleep. He couldn't. And so he kept thinking, ticking down the time until midnight, doing anything to keep his mind from faeries.

_Three... Two... One..._

And then the door slammed open.

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Harry stared unabashedly at the giant who called himself Hagrid. His birthday had turned out to be a surprise after all, and tomorrow he would go to Diagon Ally. But, though he rationally accepted the explanation, he still couldn't quite believe. His parents hadn't been worthless; they'd been heroes, and so was he. He was going to a school called Hogwarts, not to Stonewall. Magic was real.

That last was the one that he kept questioning, even after he'd seen Dudley with a pig's tail. Magic was _real!_ And that meant that he wasn't a freak, and the strange things that happened around him really weren't so strange after all, and some of his dreams might have actually happened. Maybe he had been carried on a flying motorcycle. And maybe...

The waves still crashed.

Maybe, in the past, he'd come here with his parents before, or somewhere similar. Maybe he'd been on lots of trips as a baby.

Was it possible that he _had_, after all, heard this song before? Had he really seen faeries, heard them calling to him? Just as he could hear them now...

Hagrid was sleeping. The boy slipped his glasses on and padded to the window. The beautiful people were still there, still dancing and chasing the foaming sea-bubbles, heedless of the storm. They turned to watch him as he watched them, singing, calling. Now that he knew they were real, he couldn't believe that they meant him harm.

_Come away, O human child!_

_To the waters and the wild,_

_with a faery, hand in hand,_

_for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

For a fleeting moment, Harry felt a wave of longing inside him. He did want to go with them, away from the Dursleys and Privet Drive. But -

But Hagrid had come. And now Harry knew that he wouldn't be staying the Dursley family, because he would be leaving for Hogwarts, where people who knew his parents would be kind to him, and where he could learn magic. Perhaps, away from Dudley's gang, he could even make some friends.

Harry turned away from the window again to his spot on the hard boards. Things were getting better. He couldn't go with the faeries right now.

But he still heard the song as he drifted off.

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Review responses: 

**Mage Alia:** My very first review for Stolen Child! -grins- Proof-reading is something I'm good at, don't worry. It's other things - like writing something over a few thousand words and finishing long stories - that I have trouble with. But this should be finished; it's only four relatively short parts. -somewhat dreamy smile- And I love faeries, too, and sometimes want to go away with them.

**Goddessa39: **Well, this should answer that question. Hope you enjoyed it!

**Howler: **-fond smile- Thanks, cub. You'll find out, now, won't you?

**Arrina: **Wow, sis, is it honestly that difficult for you to review? Maybe it'll be easier this time since you haven't read it in advance.

**Maybe: **Thanks. But I don't know if I can agree, seeing as I've never read your stuff. Do you have an account with some stuff I could go through?

Okay, all, I think this time I want to be a tad ambitious. Let's see: ten days or seven reviews this time, I think!


	3. Sirius

And... Chapter Three! Review responses are at the bottom._  
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Where silver water gushes

_from the hills above Glen-Car,_

_in pools among the rushes_

_that scarce could bathe a star,_

_there we seek for slumbering trout:_

_and, whispering in their ears,_

_give them unquiet dreams;_

_leaning softly out_

_from ferns that drop their tears_

_over the young streams._

Outside the window of the dormitory, the stars were shining brightly. Four of the five occupants were asleep, and did not see. One did; but his eyes were fuzzy with tears, and the points of light wavered for him. He didn't care.

Harry didn't particularly care about anything right now, least of all the panorama of stars. Save for one particularly bright star, they held no interest for him; but his eyes were fixed on that one, and his lips formed a silent name.

_Sirius._

There was no answer. There never would be. Sirius was gone.

Suddenly, the boy could not bear the red-gold room for any longer. It almost seemed to press in on him. For a moment, he thought that this must have been what Azkaban was like for Sirius. No matter. He couldn't stay in here. Fetching his broomstick from his bed, he padded to the window. It opened easily, and the outside air was cold on his face. He clambered onto the sill, mounted his broom, and kicked off.

Aiming the Firebolt over the lake, Harry drifted. There was no specific place in his mind, not even a grave-site. Convicted criminals weren't dignified with graves. Especially when the body was not even available for burial. But the lack of a resting place didn't change the grief felt.

Harry might have known Sirius for only two years, but that had been more than enough time to love the man as an uncle if not a father. So what if Sirius had never been able to legally adopt him? That didn't manner anyway. So what if he'd been scarred by Azkaban? His godson didn't care if he was somewhat more reckless, or if he still loved pranking more than anything else. He just wished that he was back.

A tear dropped, falling into the center of the lake. It left a ripple pattern in its wake, disturbing the stillness of the waters. Another followed. Harry wept, alone, away from the crowd of students.

It had been his fault.

Why hadn't he trusted Snape? Why had he believed Kreacher instead? And why hadn't he thought to use the mirrors? No, he'd been stupid, and he'd rushed off without thinking, and now his godfather was dead. All his fault. And he'd be lucky if all of the DA recovered.

When the tears finally stopped, Harry felt a very small bit better. He dragged his sleeve across his face, glad that his glasses were charmed dry. As high as he was, the view was incredible, and for the first time he actually focused on it. In Quidditch, most of his attention went to finding the Snitch and avoiding Bludgers - not that he'd been playing Quidditch much this past year, thanks to Umbridge. But now he could float, and look, and he did.

The castle was off to one side, huge and monolithic in the frosty air. Beneath him was the lake; off to one side was Hagrid's hut and the Whomping Willow. Past that was dark line of the Forbidden Forest, but it looked... odd... Bespectacled eyes peered closer. The Forest was not a single dark mat. There were light places in it, valleys where the darkness drew back, and what looked like streams and lakes.

Curious, apathetic as to his own safety, Harry directed his broom nearer the Forbidden Forest until he was speeding above the tangled trees. There was a surreal atmosphere to the night. The Forest was silent, but it seemed that it watched him. Ordinarily, Harry would not have dared this; but the residents, tonight, seemed to tolerate him.

There was an erratic wind behind, and when he peered over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape rising up beside him. A few moments later, the thestral matched paces with him, soaring serenely beside the broomstick and boy. Only a year earlier, the boy wouldn't have been able to see it, but then had come the Tournament. He'd been able to see them then, though he didn't know what he was seeing until Hagrid's lessons. Now, Harry wasn't sure, but he thought that this one looked familiar, almost like the one that had carried him to the Department of Mysteries and Sirius...

Welling tears forced shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the thestral was gone.

Even if the Tournament with all of its events had never happened, it would still be his fault. He drew in a shuddering breath, looked up at that bright star again, half-expecting, hoping, for some voice. There was none, of course. That star was just a star, and the man named for it had left.

But the star almost seemed to chastise him. If the Tournament had never happened, Harry now thought, then Voldemort would not have come back. The visions he had received would never have happened. All the prisoners of Azkaban would be twitching in madness in their cells. Bellatrix Lestrange would never have escaped, and so would never have dueled Sirius - and Sirius, Sirius would still be _alive._ Things would be different.

And the Tournament, he felt, was not his fault. Mad-Eye's imprisonment and the imposter portraying him had not been Harry's fault, and neither had the scores he'd received. How should he have known that the Goblet was a portkey?

Even so, the events after the Tournament... The prophecy...

He ripped his gaze away from the stars and directed it towards the Forest. One of the light, moon-speckled areas was nearing. There were still trees there, but they were shorter. Straighter. Not so menacing.

Now he was directly above, and he halted, hovering, staring down through his round glasses like a screech owl. There was no threat that he could see or hear. The Forest was still silent.

Like a last, lingering autumn leaf, he drifted downwards. Slowly, he heard, on the fringes of his mind, music and star-flecked laughter. It was familiar, though he didn't know why or from where.

He'd brought his Firebolt and forgotten his wand, he realized suddenly. But... did it matter? Even though he didn't trust his hunches anymore - _Sirius _- this was familiar in a way the visions never had been, and the boy could tell that this laughter, this music meant him no harm. No-one who laughed like that could be threatening.

Edging forward, Harry caught sight of a web of streamlets and tiny pools. They didn't really even look big enough to hold the moon's reflection, let alone the myriad of stars. But it wasn't the moon that was reflected in the first pool he came to. It was a star, a single, bright, welcoming star. A silver flash rippled under the surface, and the boy caught sight of a small creature leaning out from the mesh of ferns surrounding the little mere. The faery glimmered like the pool's surface in the moonshine.

A brief spider-web touch brushed against the back of his neck. A hand the size of a moth's wing tangled in his hair. He turned his head; from the corner of his eye a golden dart disappeared. The faeries drifted behind him, before him, circling the boy with old eyes. Singing, they called to him.

_Come away, o human child!_

_To the waters and the wild_

_with a faery, hand in hand,_

_for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

There was a promise in their eyes. Harry could go with them, and he would not see, nor hear, nor ever feel Voldemort again. There would be no more visions and no more grief. He would be healed of his grief and any wounds he might suffer. They would give to him a peaceful life free from loss. The Boy-Who-Lived would no longer exist. Harry would be Harry, and nothing more unless he chose to be.

The star shone brighter for an instant, and he closed his eyes, remembering. If Sirius were still here, then he'd not go. But Sirius wasn't here, and he wouldn't be ever again. What would he tell his godson? What choice would he have him make? What choice would his friends, Cedric Diggory, his parents who died so that he could live - what would they have for him?

The faeries were beckoning, now, past the pool, deeper in. Harry stepped forward, treading carefully the edges of small meres. A larger opening was before him now, and he caught his breath. Shining in that mirror were countless stars: countless small stars, and one greater.

Choking, he lifted his head to gaze at the faeries. He wished so badly to go, to leave and never be responsible for death again... But what about the prophecy?

The prophecy named one and only one. If he did not destroy Voldemort, no one else could. What would happen then, to his friends? All the blood would be on his hands. It didn't matter that, if he left, he would never know when it happened. He'd still know that it was inevitable. More tears tracked his face. Harry could not do that.

Weeping, he stepped backwards, fumbling his way back to his broom.

The faeries watched him go.

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Yes, **Gaurwen,** I am insane. I am not, however, hearltess. See! your next chapter awaits you - along with the answer to your question. 

Good grief. Sor-_ry_**, Arrina.** I just won't ask you to review at all, then.

**Angel Lucifer,** neither have I. That was I wrote this: upon doing a search of nothing came up. And I desperately wanted something, so I figured I'd have to write it myself. -grins- One of my favorite poems too, by-the-by.

It truly is stunningly befitting, **Faerie Fighter.** Although I don't believe Harry is fighting the faeries so much as wanting to go, but not being able to. Don't worry: I'll update regardless of the reviews. It'll just take longer. You know what they say about reviews being inspiration? It's true. -cracks grin- Hope you like this chapter.

Hello, **Brother. **Don't you mean **kid psycho,** though? Yes, it's short. That part's deliberate.

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Review, please! I'll keep on with the addition of two: nine reviews, or ten days, this time. So hit the button! 


	4. Luna

And... this story is now complete! Yes, it's short; but really, it was supposed to be. Anyone who wants to use this as a jump-off for a longer fic or ficlet is more than welcome.

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Away with us he's coming,_

_the solemn-eyed;_

_he'll hear no more the lowing_

_of the calves on the warm hill-side,_

_nor the kettle on the hob_

_sing peace into his breast,_

_nor see the brown mice bob_

_round and round the oatmeal chest.  
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Flames licked at the blue sky, dancing up from the flaming pyre. The single, solitary observer did not move.

Long and long the years had been since the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and they had left their scars. A white line across his neck betokened an attempted hostage situation; the leaning pressure on his right leg had come from too many curses. Slowly spreading red marred his white robes - yet the deepest wounds were visible in his eyes. Those green eyes had been lively once and joyful. Now they stared, dull, at the burning ashes of his two best friends. There were no tears.

The tears had all been shed at the funeral pyre of his love, two years before.

There would be no more deaths, he knew. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Albus, almost all of the DA... all had died in a worthy cause, and it was because of them and their sacrifices that Voldemort was dead and his Death Eaters with him. But the loss did not leave.

Time passed, and the fire began to die out. Dusk came, and embers were all that remained of the blaze. Still, he did not move.

Deliberately light footsteps approached.

"I thought you'd be here."

He didn't turn his head. His voice rasped. "Where else could I be?"

"If Pomfrey were here, she'd want you in bed."

"If she were here."

Madam Pomfrey had died just a few months past, a casualty of an attack on her most frequent patient. But she knew that as well as he did. He waited for her to go on.

"They're celebrating, inside. Molly is there, and Bill and Fleur and the twins. The Headmistress is worried for you out here."

He didn't respond to that. The only potentially dark creature left near the school was standing with him.

There was a pregnant pause. "She wouldn't want this for you."

Finally, he turned to look at the woman next to him. She'd suffered in the war, losing first Neville and then Charlie before being Turned. There was a reason she had not stood with him when the pyre was lit that afternoon.

"She's gone. So are Ron and 'Mione."

"Not forever."

He emitted a dry laugh. "Surely you're not suggesting suicide?"

"No."

"What, then?"

There was a silence, then - "You've heard the whispering behind the veil."

"Yes."

"I hear it more clearly, now. They're still there. They're waiting. But they don't want you to die to them."

"I'll never stop remembering."

She sighed, and a wisp of blonde hair blew into her face. "You're already dying. You've despaired of life. I can taste it." She peered at him with large, luminous eyes. "And I can see it."

"What of it?"

"You've met the faeries."

He blinked. That had been years ago. He had not seen them since, and he'd never shared the experience. "How...?"

"I've seen them, visited them. They've asked me, too, but I still have Daddy to think of."

"He doesn't care that you've been Turned?"

"Of course not." She laughed, and her dangling earrings swung wildly. "Why would he? He loves me."

The Dursley family would never have looked past such a thing. Of course, now that lack of caring had killed them. The wards had failed when Voldemort attacked. Vernon and Dudley were dead. Petunia would never leave St. Mungo's.

His thoughts wandered. His godfather would have supported him, but he was dead, as was Remus Lupin. Albus would have cared for him, but he'd died three years ago to save his life. Ginny's love would have been supportive - she'd held him up in so many ways - but a year ago she'd been killed by Bellatrix Lestrange. That was a blood price Harry had been glad to collect. And Ron and Hermione, his friends for so many years, had fallen today at Voldemort's hands. Who would hold him now?

As if she was reading his mind - and as a vampire, she might have been - she interjected. "You should go with them."

"Will they come again?" They'd come to him and been refused twice over, and he dimly remembered another time. Why would they come after that?

"They've been waiting for years." She regarded him solemnly as the first of the embers flickered and died. "They'll come."

His first year, he had not thought them real. His fifth, the Prophecy had been hanging over his head. "My task is finished."

"Yes."

It was a revelation. He'd fulfilled the prophecy, and now he could do anything he wished.

"The Headmistress and the Weasleys will miss you, but they have lives to rebuild."

"What about you?" She also had lost everything, and he wanted to know. Would she be all right?

"When Daddy dies, I'll come." It was a promise.

The two stood there, watching, until at last there was only one flickering jewel left. Then she pecked him on the cheek and put her arms around him, just holding him. He held her back. Both of them were alone and in need of comfort. She whispered to him. "Go," she said. "Go. They'll heal you."

"I will," he murmured back, and she released him.

"Be well, Harry."

"Be well, Luna."

Silently, now, she vanished towards the castle and the celebrants within.

The stars had come out as they were standing, and the brightest of them shone down upon the lone ember. It danced in the gentle light. Harry gazed up at them, remembering that night after Sirius' death and the stars that had shone then. He'd wanted to leave, then; but had been held back by the desire to save his friends. He sighed. His efforts had been in vain, and his friends had died regardless. Now he was alone, all alone. And then, as they did now, the stars had seemed to urge him on.

The ember flickered and died.

The stars danced brighter, and notes flickered on the edge of hearing. Harry closed his eyes, listening to the melody that had followed him for so many years. When he opened them again, the faeries were ringed about him. They needed neither to speak to him nor to sing, not this time. He'd heard their call, and there was nothing left to hold him.

He lifted his hands. They were caught up by a myriad of smaller ones. Harry stepped forward. This time, he wouldn't be turning back.

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_For he comes, the human child,_

_to the waters and the wild_

_with a faery, hand in hand,_

_from a world more full of weeping than he can understand._

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_Finis _

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**Review responses!**

**ivan the terrable**, thanks for showing up. I think it is, too; I did a search for similar stories, but couldn't find any.

You think so, **LassyD**? So do my sibs. But there are four chapters to this story, not three...

-laughs- So you want an update, **Heiress-To-The-Dark-Throne?** As ordered, milady!

-shudders- Well, sis, I don't believe I'd like that. Are you sure that **Gaurwen** is really your name? You seem a bit too vicious and insubordinate for a wolf cub... Anyway, the chapter.

**Arrina**, the stars are gorgeous. As for leaving... we'll see!

**Faerie Fighter**, you came back! -cheers- But by the way, ten days is NOT a long wait. Ten months is. I've had that done to me before, so I speak from experience. The grieving was a huge part of that chapter, yes. Thank you for refraining from plot-spoilage!

Thanks, **Stephalopolis.** It's actually now finished.

Well? Come on, review!_  
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